


It's Handled (Scandal Westeros - Episode One)

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Scandal: Westeros [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern Westeros, Scandal-Westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: As the People's Council of the Republic of Westeros debates Prime Minister Robert Baratheon's removal from office, Brienne Tarth awaits a date that will end in the offer of a lifetime.In an underground garage in Oldtown, Westeros's top political fixer tries to quietly make a situation disappear for one of the republic's oldest families.Meanwhile, in the Capitol at Harrenhal, a political rock star is born.
Series: Scandal: Westeros [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623448
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	It's Handled (Scandal Westeros - Episode One)

_“Breaking news out of the Capitol at Harrenhal. Tonight, The People’s Council begins deliberations on Prime Minister Robert Baratheon’s removal from office. The twice-elected PM is answering to charges of abuse of power and misappropriation of government funds, allegedly to silence two women with whom he fathered children outside of his marriage. The investigation, led by the Prime Minister's brother, Attorney General Stannis Baratheon, has yielded a trove of documents and testimony, which will be examined and debated in the lower legislative body during a historic late-night session…”_

Brienne Tarth’s drink is too strong. 

You’d think she’d be better at this, having grown up with military men, but other than the occasional beer, she never developed a taste for alcohol. What she needs right now is a frosty Motte Wheat. Even the fancier restaurants in the Storm Lands serve it, but here? At the Hightower Hotel in Oldtown? She doubts it. Besides, she looks ridiculous enough with her thick-as-a-castle-wall body squeezed in the sapphire blue dress shift dress she’s wearing. No need to remind her date how manly she looks by chugging beer. 

Speaking of her date… She checks her phone again. No text. No call. And he was due 10 minutes ago. Maybe she should text him… No. She doesn’t want to come off as desperate. Fifteen more minutes. Then, she’ll get the hell out of here and drown her sorrows at the Quill and Tankard. 

She tries to focus on the evening news but finds herself people-watching instead. Immediate mistake. The women, in their simple, elegant dresses and perfectly coiffed hair, are effortlessly chic. While the clothes are understated, there is easily $250,000 in watches, bags, and shoes in the restaurant. It’s like sitting in a room full of Margaery Tyrells. 

She takes another sip of vodka soda and winces at the sting. 

Brienne is pulled out of her thoughts by the thud of a blood-red Celine bag landing on her table. On the other side of it, an absurdly beautiful woman with olive skin and flowing dark hair settles on to the stool across from her. “I’m sorry,” Brienne says. “I’m saving that seat for…” 

“Garrett Flowerson,” the woman fishes an iPhone out of her bag and taps the screen, showing a photo of the man Brienne is expecting. “This broad-shouldered, square-jawed Prince Charming--that seems to be a thing for you--who swiped right on your profile. He’s not coming.” She flips Balayaged-hair over the shoulder of her tan trench coat and waves down a waiter. 

Gods, Brienne thinks. He has a girlfriend who found his profile... For the first time in a while, she is grateful to be bigger and taller than most women she meets. This one, tall as she is, is willowy. Brienne can take her if it comes to that. “Look, I’m sorry if I…”

“A glass of Dornish Red for me,” the woman says to a waiter who has materialized out of nowhere. “And she’ll have a Motte Wheat with an orange garnish.” 

This woman knows what beer she drinks? What in Seven Hells? “His profile said ‘single,’” Brienne says. “I didn’t know…” 

The bag is pushed aside and the woman finally looks at her, blinking big, black eyes and pursing wine red lips. “Oh,” she drawls. Brienne hears the hint of a Dornish accent. “Sweetling. Garrett Flowerson doesn’t exist. And this isn’t a date.”

For Brienne, this is a bridge too far. 

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are,” she hops to her feet. “Or what kind of sick game you’re playing with me--” 

“Oh wow,” the Dornishwoman’s eyes grow wide with amusement. “Apologies. You’re tall in photos but in person, it’s truly marvelous. Anyway. Before you go all ‘girl fight’ on me, you’ll want to have a seat. This isn’t a date because it’s a job interview.” 

Before Brienne can stutter that she’s not looking for a job, the woman continues. 

“Yes, you think you have a job toiling away in Renly Baratheon’s hometown office drafting your earnest, well-meaning policy proposals while _praying_ his pretty new wife doesn’t catch those longing glances you cast his way with those big baby blues of yours, but… that’s not a job. It’s a waste of brainpower for a woman who graduated fourth in her class from the Military Academy at Storm’s End. Not to mention pathetic, which is a really bad look for a woman of your…” she pauses her dizzying monologue to give Brienne a once over, “... stature.”

“Who the hell _are_ you?” Brienne asks as a waiter in a stiff-collared white shirt places a mug of Motte Wheat on the table in front of her. 

“ _Now_ you’re asking the right questions.” The Dornishwoman holds out a slender hand with black lacquered nails. “Nymeria. And I’m here on behalf of Sarella Sand to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” 

“ _Thee_ Sarella Sand?” Brienne asks once she can manage words and shake Nymeria’s hand. “Offer? I thought you said this was an interview?” 

Nymeria smirks over the rim of her wine glass. “I did say that, didn’t I?” It’s the slowest she’s spoken all night. 

Sarella Sand. Westeros’s top political consultant. Brienne’s followed her work since Sarella helped her father get elected to the Storm Lands seat on the High Council. She’d met Sarella at his swearing-in but... “I don’t understand. Why would she…” 

“I enjoy foreplay as much as the next girl, Brienne, but I’m not asking if you want the job because we both know that you do. No matter what you say, you want more for yourself than busting your ass in the name of some Ken doll that you diddle yourself to when you go home at night. So, Cinderella. You can keep scrubbing Renly’s floors hoping someone will make you the belle of the ball or you can let Fairy Godmother Sarella make you a warrior in a suit.” 

This is insane. A woman she’s never met, sitting in front of her, reading her biography and inner thoughts, dangling the opportunity of a lifetime. Common sense tells Brienne she needs more time. To do research. She should at least go to the restroom and search Nymeria on Beacon to see if she is who she says she is. 

But Brienne’s answer doesn’t come from the common sense part of her brain. Something higher, or perhaps deeper inside, speaks with such conviction that she’s shocked when the words come out of her mouth. “I want to be a warrior in a suit.” 

“Excellent,” Nymeria hops up and pulls out her phone. “There’s an Uber outside waiting to take us back to the office.” 

“Now? But it’s 10 o’clock.” 

“Rule number one, Brienne: warriors don’t sleep. Now let’s go,” she nods toward the door. “And stand up straight when you meet Sarella. Warriors don’t slouch, either.” 

* * *

“Do me a favor,” Sarella Sand says, inspecting Jon’s appearance as the piss-scented elevator they’re riding descends. “Take your hair out of that ponytail.” 

She’s surprised his brow can furrow any deeper than its default, but he manages; his gray eyes narrow with suspicion as he frees his wild mane of black, neck-length curls. “Why?” 

“You need to look pretty for our Qohorik friends. Button up your coat, too.” 

“You’re serious? You want me to look ‘pretty’ for a bunch of Qohorik mobsters?” 

“If I wanted ‘scary,’ I would have called Obara,” she says, fluffing his hair. “No one will expect these luscious locks to take out a room full of people in the blink of an eye.” 

Per usual, Jon Snow eyes her warily but does as she asks, buttoning his black peacoat and flipping up the collar. “It took the Old Lion long enough to come up with the money. You’d think he didn’t want his son back.” 

“He's not used to negotiating with people who threaten him. He'd rather drop a nuke on Qohor than pay a dollar."

The elevator doors open into an underground garage. “You’re sure about this?” Jon asks before they step out. 

Adjusting the belt on her off-white coat, she takes a deep breath and stares straight ahead. “Of course,” she answers. “But keep your trigger finger ready in case I’m wrong.”

There is no sound but the echo of Sarella’s stilettos as they march through the empty garage toward three men in black leather jackets. 

“Good evening,” she chirps in perfect Qohorik. “I believe you have something that belongs to my client.” 

The tallest of the three mobsters steps forward and speaks in the Common Tongue. “And you have the $8 million we requested?” 

Jon tenses at her side. 

“We agreed to $5 million.” 

The mobster strokes his long, dark beard. “That was before we assessed your client’s considerable worth. If he shits gold, what is another $3 million? Say in… six hours? If this is challenging, we can start sending the package home in pieces. For incentive.” 

Sarella puts a hand on Jon’s arm. _Easy_ , she says without saying it. Steeling herself, she steps forward.

“Here are your options, Mr. Hoat. You could walk away from this deal. But you, Mr. Urswyck, and Mr. Utt will be placed on every no-fly list from Westeros to the Summer Isles in the next two hours. Your Pentoshi bank account, number 9-0-2-4-7-8, where you keep that 32 million dollar emergency fund could just…” Sarella snaps her fingers, “…disappear. You could receive a call that the Black Forest Nursing Home in Qohor has mysteriously burned to the ground leaving your lovely mother, Mrs. Elda Hoat, I believe, dead before her time. Or you can take this $5 million, catch your flight to the motherland within the hour and be sleeping under warm goat furs before the sun goes down.”

The mobsters grew increasingly uncomfortable as she spoke, especially when she called each of them by name. They’re used to operating as a single faceless unit--The Bloody Mummers. Not flesh and blood men with names and loved ones. 

An achingly slow moment crawls by. 

She senses Jon’s readiness. He’ll draw and drop all three men with clean shots to the head before they pull their weapons. All she’ll have to do is drop, tuck, and wait out the noise.

Thankfully, that isn’t necessary. 

Hoat nods and Urswyck pops the trunk of a black Sedan parked behind them. A pair of long legs swing over the opening, struggling to find their purchase before landing on the concrete. “Walk,” Urswyck barks and the captive, abnormally gaunt with a potato sack covering his head, limps in Sarella and Jon’s direction. 

Her face remains impassive but she exhales gently through her nose. Next to her, Jon’s shoulders relax and he tosses a duffle bag of cash that Utt retrieves. 

"Pleasure doing business, gentlemen,” Sarella says, nodding at the Bloody Mummers as they get in their vehicles. 

“That stuff about the nursing home,” Jon asks. “Was that real?” 

“The information, yes. The rest...” she replies. “...sounds like something Tywin would arrange.” 

He wipes a hand over his bearded chin and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ hell, Sarella.”

“One more favor,” she looks at Jaime Lannister’s covered head and bound hands. “Free our friend from his confines? I have to call our client.” 

"You’re pushing it.” 

“You’ll get all the Bear Island Private Reserve Scotch and porcelain-skinned women your heart desires,” she teases. “And I’ll throw in some steaks for that wolf you call a dog.” She reaches for her phone while Jon lifts the potato sack and pulls a ball gag out of Jaime’s mouth. “Sarella Sand for Tywin Lannister,” she says into her phone. “Yes, please tell Mr. Lannister that the situation is handled. He can retrieve his package from my office.”

“Uhhh,” Jon calls ominously. “You might want to take a look at this.”

A shaggy, tired-eyed Jaime Lannister raises his right arm. “By 'this,'” he says, his aristocratic tone coated with a thick layer of gravel as he waves what looks like a bandage-covered stump, “he means my missing hand.”

* * *

She expects the offices of Sphinx Consultants to look like the rest of corporate Oldtown--sterile and nauseatingly contemporary. Instead, Brienne walks into a remodeled brownstone with dark-stained hardwood floors. She follows Nymeria through the foyer into a long hall that breaks into three rooms: a lounge with a kitchenette and brown leather couches, Sarella Sand’s office, and a conference room where Brienne hears the hum of news coverage under what sounds like a lively conversation. 

“Cool as a fuckin’ fan, she threatens the fucker with Reins of Castamere Part Two,” she hears in the thick accent of the North. 

Unsure of what to do, she stands in the doorway while Nymeria shrugs off her coat and hangs it in a nearby closet. 

“I come bearing fresh meat,” Nymeria announces, drawing the attention of the four people seated around a conference table littered with YiTish food cartons and chopsticks. Brienne recognizes one of them, Randall Tarly’s son, from his brief time at the Military Academy before he transferred to the Citadel. 

“Everyone, meet Brienne Tarth, daughter of High Councilman Selwyn Tarth and the newest member of the team. Brienne, meet everyone,” Nymeria gestures toward the table. “Our curly-haired pretty boy with the hot accent is Jon, resident ex-cop and investigator. The lovable teddy bear with the round cheeks is Sam, researcher, and hacker extraordinaire. The lady in leather with the permanent scowl is my dear sister, former special-ops Obara. And of course, you know our fearless leader...” 

Sarella Sand, as poised as Brienne remembers from their brief introduction years ago, stands, a curious expression sweeping over her teak-toned face. “You’re slouching,” Sarella says. “You’re too tall to slouch.” 

Right, Brienne thinks, adjusting her posture. “Thank you so much for the opportunity, it means the world to me that I--"

Sarella turns toward the 60-inch monitor showing the Prime Minister's removal hearing. "Did my sister give you her speech about being a Warrior in a Suit?" 

“That’s why you sent me,” Nymeria sits at the table next to Jon. “I’m an excellent closer.” Motioning toward the TV, she asks “Have they started voting yet?” 

Sarella shakes her head. “They’re still doing floor speeches.” 

Sam looks up from his laptop. “Any chance he gets off?” 

“I’ve seen Baelish work miracles,” Sarella says. “But not even he can get Robert out of this one. Not with those women lining up at Varya Snyder’s doorstep with stories for the Daily Whisper.”

“You think Renly votes against removal?” 

Obara reaches across the table for a carton of rice. “Not a chance. The Baratheon brothers don’t give a shit about each other. It’s every Stag for himself.”

“Well,” Sarella says. “No better way to clean the dirt off of your name than marrying the Republic's darling. Between Margaery and PM Olenna*, the Tyrells may as well be Targaryens.” 

Nymeria looks around the table. “Hey. Where’s our Golden Boy? I thought we picked him up tonight.” 

“It’s...” Sarella pauses. “Complicated. He’s in the basement with Qyburn.”

At this, Nymeria sits up straight. “Complicated is an understatement if we had to call that creep. What the fuck happened? And does his father know?” 

Until now, Brienne’s been so overwhelmed by her surroundings that the conversation flew over her head. But as she thinks about what she’s hearing… _Reins of Castamere, Golden Boy, his father_ … “It can’t be,” she whispers. 

She wants to run. To find a bathroom where she can take a deep breath, gather her thoughts, and mentally prepare for what she knows will come before the night ends. Then she hears Nymeria’s rant about her pathetic crush on Renly and wasting her potential. Was Jaime Lannister so different? 

No, Brienne thinks. One more smirking pretty boy distracting her from what she can accomplish, who she can be if she keeps her eye on the prize. A prize she didn’t even know she craved until she stood in that room watching one of the most brilliant women in Westerosi politics discuss pillars of the Republic as if they were pawns on a Cyvasse board.

“Brienne,” Sarella calls to her. “Can you go downstairs and check on our guest?

“Yes--” she has to stop herself from saying “ma’am,” despite how much this feels like her first day at boot camp. The day she met the man she’s about to see for the first time in years. 

“Warrior in a suit,” she repeats to herself, walking toward the stairs that lead to the basement. “And he’s just another Ken doll.” 

_Yeah_ , a voice in her mind spits back at her. _The Ken doll that you fucked that one time._

* * *

_“In a historic turn of events that should shock no one in the Republic, the People’s Council has voted 126 to 74 in favor of removing Prime Minister Robert Baratheon from office; finding him guilty of abuse of power and misappropriation of government funds. While the measure was expected to pass, several councilmen from the Southern coalition, including representatives from Golden Tooth and Ashemark, who pledged 'no' votes, joined the ‘yes’ side after a harrowing speech on the floor from Councilman Robb Stark of Winterfell.”_

“You’re here late,” Sarella says from her desk, where her shoe-less feet are propped up while she scrolls through her phone. “I thought you had plans with that blonde girl from your gym? Val, right?” 

Plopping down on one of the couches in her office, Jon shrugs. “Change of plans.” 

“I know she’s no silver-haired princess, but…” 

He groans. “ _One time_ , I compliment a speech about ending slavery and you refuse to shut up about it. Maybe I’ll keep this popcorn and Dornish Red for myself.” 

“More than once,” Sarella approaches the couch with two wine glasses. “But if you’re going to have a crush, you can’t go wrong with Princess Danaerys.” 

Rolling his eyes, Jon changes the subject. “Your new girl is too innocent. You can see her heart bleeding in those eyes of hers. Sure she’s cut out for it?” 

“We need a little heart around here. You all are getting too cynical. Though something seemed off between her and Lannister. Did you notice?” 

“I was too busy making sure his man Bronn didn’t steal anything on his way out."

The two settle into silence as pundits across Westeros laud Robb Stark’s speech:

_“Some of these lines were just incredible. This one, in particular: ‘Few people can attest more honestly to Prime Minister Baratheon’s greatness than I. My father served with him; named me in honor of his great feats. But we must be willing to let go of our attachment to the past to save the future of our great republic. That future cannot flourish in the face of lies, avarice, and corruption. My fellow Councilmen and women, that future can only be secured with Robert Baratheon’s removal from office.’ I mean the hair on my arms is literally standing up. These are the kind of remarks that make political careers…”_

“The fucker was made for TV,” Jon grabs a handful of popcorn. “We just didn’t know it until you came along.” 

“I was a hired gun. Wyman saw the potential and the people of Winterfell agreed," Sarella sips her wine, eyes never leaving the screen. "Jon. Why are you here buttering me up when you could be hooking up with a hot blonde?"

He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. A photo of him and an auburn-haired, blue-eyed man flashes across it. "Because someone needs to talk to you." 

After three rings, a heavy Northern accent comes through the speakers. “Snow."

“Stark,” Jon greets. “Hardly recognized your voice. I’m too used to seeing you on TV sounding like a proper Southern cunt.” 

“Says the man who left us to live with the proper Southern cunts.” 

“I’m sitting with a certain Dornishwoman who may take offense to that.” 

"Sarella?” 

“Yes, I’d like to speak with the rising star of the People’s Council. Can you put him on the line?” 

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Jon points at Sarella. “Don’t open any texts from Val. Matter of fact, don’t open any texts at all.” 

“Your cousin is afraid I’ll see one of his women’s nudes, Robb.” 

“Making up for those years as a virgin in Winterfell, I see.” 

Jon shakes his head. “I’ll be in the lounge.” 

Sarella turns off the speaker and presses Jon’s phone to her ear. “Hi.” 

After taking a deep breath, Robb replies. “Hi.” 

"Good job tonight."

“Your line edits made all the difference. Thanks again.” 

“Theon’s turning into quite the speechwriter. Soon, you won’t need me.” 

“I’ll always need you.” 

She walks toward the window and sits, watching the stars twinkle over the dark waters of the Honeywine. "You wore the navy suit tonight. Smart."

“It’s my lucky one. I’m sure you know why.” 

Sarella is silent. 

“Do you remember the first time I wore it? The debate at Wintertown?” 

“How could I forget? It was the first time I thought we could actually win.” 

“And after? When you peeled it off of me in the hotel room?” 

Closing her eyes, she exhales. “Robb.” 

“Gods,” his voice drops an octave. “You make me love the sound of my name.” 

She bites her lip and considers her reply. It would be so easy to... “We're not doing this tonight, Councilman. Definitely not doing it on Jon’s phone.” 

She hears the smile in his voice before he speaks. “Where, Ms. Sand, would you like to do it?” 

Peering down at the street, she watches an Uber pick up a woman from the neighboring front stoop. “I hired Selwyn Tarth’s daughter today. She was slaving away writing policy on Renly’s staff and we told her she’s wasting potential pining after a man she can’t have,” she pauses. “When are you proposing to Roslin?” 

“Sarella…” 

“You’re either running for Governor of the North or Prime Minister after Randall Tarly’s interim ends. You need a wife and asked Jon to call so you could break the news, so… When?” 

“Next week. I’m stumping for my Uncle Edmure in the Riverlands. It’ll be the day after his campaign event.” 

“I’m sure Catelyn is thrilled.” 

“Yeah,” he snorts. “I’m starting to think she’s the one proposing. You know these things are mummers' shows, right? We can still--” 

“We could,” Sarella says. “But we won’t.” 

“You weren’t some campaign fling, Sarella. You know it was more--” 

“--I know,” she nods as if he can see her. "Listen, I need to give Jon his phone. But… thank you."

"For what?"

"Making sure I heard this from you and not the Daily Whisper."

“Come on, Sarella. I wouldn’t have let that happen. We were... You deserve the dignity of hearing it from me."

“The ever honorable Robb Stark," she grins. "Goodnight, Councilman."

“Hey... Call me back on your phone? It’s late. I… want to see you home safely.” 

“What if Roslin--” 

“I'll handle it. Just call me back."

Sarella doesn’t confirm or refuse before ending the call and staring out of the window. There’s a twitch in her nose and wetness pooling behind her eyelids when Jon’s phone buzzes in her hand. A text from "Val W." with an eggplant emoji makes her laugh out loud. 

Saved by one of Jon's hot blondes, she thinks, blinking back her tears. She was a warrior in a suit, after all. And warriors in suits don't cry. 

“PAGING OFFICER SNOW,” her voice echoes through the empty office. “REQUEST FOR A DICK APPOINTMENT ON LINE 1!"

**Author's Note:**

> *PM Olenna Tyrell - Olenna Tyrell is the Republic of Westeros's former Prime Minister. She is the first woman to hold the office and holds the record for years-served (three consecutive 5-year terms).


End file.
